


Rat

by meaninglessblah



Series: Prompts & Fills [9]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27220183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: “That better be one huge fucking rat,” Jason’s angry tone filters through from the kitchen, growing in volume as he rounds the corner into the hallway, “or someone’s about to get their ass-”He freezes when he catches sight of Damian, framed by the door frame, slumped back against the sill. Knees knocking and palm all but sewn to his stomach, holding back the tide of sickly red bubbling over his washed out fingers.He looks genuinely remorseful beneath Jason ire, which is leaching out of him in a tingling rush to be replaced by horror the longer he stands there. “Just the rat,” he murmurs, and goes down to one knee, uncoordinated.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Series: Prompts & Fills [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987264
Kudos: 72





	Rat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frantic_Vampire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frantic_Vampire/gifts).



> This was an old prompt fill, moved over from Tumblr. The prompt was "“I’m almost there, just hang on” + “Hey look at me, just breathe, okay?", asked by the very sweet franticvampirereads <3

Jason bites the tail end of the gauze between his teeth and pulls tight, watching the neat, fresh row of stitches disappear beneath the white cloth. He’s agitated, blood thrumming from the last dregs of adrenaline and irritation that comes with a family friendly mission. 

He’s so sick of being Bruce’s bloodhound. Someone he can send to sniff out the scent, do all the legwork - only to drop in at the last minute and ‘handle it’. 

Jason’s completely fucking capable of handling an arms deal himself, thank you very fucking much. He’d been tailing Sionis’ men for months before Bruce had shown up with his ragtag team of vigilantes to ever-so-kindly take it off Jason’s plate. Thanks for the intel, the professionals will take it from here. 

And like goddamn amateur hour, it’d ended in a shitfight. They’d drawn knives, so the Bats had drawn knives, and then someone had cut the power. Jason had leapt back into the fray immediately. Taken a switchblade into his brachial artery for his trouble, and lost track of whatever other wounds the colourful band of siblings had weathered before they’d managed to cuff the majority of the small time dealers. 

Jason had forgone the afterparty in favour of skulking home to lick his wounds and down some whiskey in a blessedly Bat-free environment. Left the rounding up of the last of the thugs to Robin and Nightwing, who had taken to the rooftops in a way that reminded Jason far too much of pixie boots and an old man’s smile. 

Jason rubs a palm into his chest, flexing his bicep to test the constriction of the bandage, and downs another finger of whiskey from the bottle. He’s not usually big on drinking, but something about tonight called for something stronger to smooth down his edges. 

He’s barely started preparing to disinfect his needle and pack up his supplies before he hears the godawful crash of something falling through the window of his second bedroom, the unoccupied one where he keeps his training mats and dumbbells. Feels the reverberation through the timber floorboards up into his shins as he rises from his stool with a spiral of fury. 

“That better be one huge fucking rat,” Jason’s angry tone filters through from the kitchen, growing in volume as he rounds the corner into the hallway, “or someone’s about to get their ass-” 

He freezes when he catches sight of Damian, framed by the door frame, slumped back against the sill. Knees knocking and palm all but sewn to his stomach, holding back the tide of sickly red bubbling over his washed out fingers. 

He looks genuinely remorseful beneath Jason ire, which is leaching out of him in a tingling rush to be replaced by horror the longer he stands there. “Just the rat,” he murmurs, and goes down to one knee, uncoordinated. 

“Jesus fuck,” Jason gasps, and sprints the length of the hallway to meet the teen. 

Damian’s down to one hand by the time Jason reaches him, breaths sharp and shaky, heaving tight and neat around the swell of his ribs. Jason can tell he’s in pain, a lot of it, and maybe hasn’t managed to remove the intrusion, if he’s moving as stilted as he is. His hands flutter for a moment as he catalogs, and then years of training under Alfred’s steady hand kick in, and Jason tests the kid’s hold. 

He’s got enough pressure on the wound for now, but from the way he hisses, and how quickly his strength is fading, Jason can tell he needs a patch job and fast. He eases Damian onto his back, settling him on the timber as Robin hisses and bears teeth at the movement, brow washing into pain as soon as he’s still. 

“What was it?” Jason demands, categorising as he does a quick sweep of the kid’s body for any more punctures. “Knife? Bullet?” 

“Knife,” Damian confirms between gritted teeth, eyes clenched tight on the wash of agony as he’s jostled. 

“Hang on for me,” Jason instructs, pressing his palm down against Damian’s knuckles to encourage him to hold tight. “Gonna get you some stitches.” 

If Damian acknowledges it in the groan Jason hears as he bolts back down the hallway, he doesn’t discern it. He scrambles for the first aid kit sprawled across the counter top, pawing through until he can find a clean needle and a bottle of disinfectant. 

“Todd,” Damian’s voice filters through, distant and waning. 

“I’m almost there, just hang on,” Jason shouts back over one shoulder, snagging a length of wire and spinning back for his impromptu patient. 

Damian’s shucked his gloves by the time Jason staggers to his knees at the kid’s side. Jason does his best not to glance aside at the stained kevlar, focusing instead on squeezing his fingers into the gaping hole of his suit to tear it wider. It’s a hard task; the reinforced weave is designed to specifically resist this treatment, and Jason’s forearms are aching by the time he manages to make a seam big enough to work within. 

Damian looks pale, his lashes blinking slowly open and shut as Jason threads his needles and dips it. He realises belatedly that he should have put on gloves, should have disinfected the wound first. Then Damian groans, soft and fleeting, and Jason discards that in favour of keeping the damn Bat alive. 

“Hang in there, kiddo,” he soothes, and pinches the skin, pressing the gash closed to verbal disagreement. “I know it hurts. Gotta sew you up. Hold on just a bit longer for me.” 

Damian nods, slow and lethargic, and Jason shoots him glances between looping his thread through the kid’s skin. He’s not even halfway done before Damian’s eyes close and don’t reopen, and panic grips Jason by the throat. 

He lifts his free hand - smeared with drying blood now - to tap Damian firmly on the cheek. The little Robin stirs, lashes sweeping slow over his cheekbones and eyes roaming until he finally locates Jason above him. 

“Hey look at me, just breathe, okay? Nice and deep. All the way to your toes.” 

Damian’s brow pinches like he has something to say about Jason’s cloying tone, but he does it nonetheless, his rib cage swelling with his inhale. 

“That’s it,” Jason praises, the words an afterthought as he refocuses on the wound. “Doing great, kid. You hit your beacon yet?” 

When no answer comes, Jason glances up to find Damian’s lids have slid closed again. 

“Hey!” Jason demands, smacking him hard this time. Damian stirs, but even he can see the lethargy swimming behind those green lens. “Have you called for help yet, Robin?” 

Damian blinks at him, uncomprehending. “I…” 

Jason grunts and ties off his thread, knotting it tight. The lack of vocal disapproval makes his stomach twist as he reaches up to press two fingers to the comm in Robin’s ear. “Say something for them, kid. They need to hear you’re okay. They won’t listen to me.” 

“Robin,” Damian sighs, and his lips tremble around the syllables. 

Jason waits, but when no further words are forthcoming, he shifts to press his thumb against the newly stitched wound. 

Damian’s snarl hitches into a sharp shout of pain, features awash with agony until Jason hears the murmur of a concerned Bat in his ear. He lifts his thumb, ignoring the sigh of relief Damian gives him for the motion as he gathers his things and climbs to his knees. 

The Bats will locate him through any of the thousand trackers probably embedded in the kid’s suit, Jason’s sure. They’re much more prompt about coming to their Robins’ aid after the first unfortunate incident, he can attest to that. It’s when he goes to swing up to his feet, supplies in arm, that a hand flashes out to snag his trousers. 

Jason glances down at the shaking fingers, pale and washed out with the lack of blood, and flicks his gaze up to Damian’s face. “Thank you,” the boy croaks, and Jason gives him a nod that eases some of the concern from the kid’s brow. That hand slumps back to the timber, grip weak as Jason steps over him. 

Seems like he should be expecting more company tonight. 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
